John's Lullaby (Johnlock)
by Of Doctors and Tardises
Summary: John is left shaken and broken after the death of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. Unable to sleep due to nightmares, he wonders if he will ever heal. But then there is a lovely song played on the violin by an unknown person, and it is the only thing that soothes him. John's own lullaby. (Johnlock; rated T to be safe! Please read and comment! Story is way better than the summary!)
1. The Lullaby

**Author's Note: **

**Jee, thanks for reading this! I really hope you like it! I am not sure whether to keep this is a one shot, or continue it as a fanfiction. If you wonderful readers like it enough, I might expand on this just a bit for you, because I do love you all~! Please let me know what you think of this, I appreciate constructive criticism! Thank you so much! **

Dr. John Watson abruptly awoke from sleep, screaming a name on the top of his lungs. _His _name. The name of his best friend that he could no longer say without breaking down into a fit of sobs. John took slow and steady breaths, trying to get his bearings and calm his reeling head and heart. Trembling hands reached up to wipe the moisture away from his tired eyes. Almost everytime he tried to rest and get some relief from the horribly dull and painful days, the same nightmare would plague him. It would sneak in his brain unwanted and make him watch Sherlock Holmes take the sickening plunge off of the hospital building, falling down, down, down...until finally landing with a horrible and final thud on the pavement. That wasn't the worst part; no, far from the part of the nightmare that shook John Watson the most. The worst part was that no matter how hard he tried, how loud he shouted, Sherlock couldn't hear him. John's cell phone would ring, and he would always answer, but Sherlock could never hear a word that was said to him. No goodbyes, no comforting of any kind. In complete despair and with so many words unspoken, Sherlock would always jump to his death.

The terrible scene would play in his mind night after night, until it got so unbearable John finally couldn't take much more and wouldn't sleep for days at a time. He would do almost anything to avoid the nightmares that terrified and hurt him so. He would even suffer from the scenes of Afghanistan like he used to, a hundred times over in fact, just to be rid of the terrible scene of Sherlock dying right before his eyes. The ex army doctor lethargically turned his head, zeroing his vision on the harsh red numbers shining far too brightly on his clock. It was only three in the morning! He had only managed to collapse on his bed around midnight.

"Can't I get one night, just one night where I can actually sleep?" he groaned to the darkness of his bedroom as he slid out from under the covers and shuffled out to make some coffee. There was no point in laying around in bed anymore if sleep was impossible now. He made his way through the very barren flat he had managed to get with the rent being taken care of by the government for his service in the military. The only real pieces of furniture that adorned the small and shabby place were a couple of worn but comfortable chairs that sat near a nice sized window, and a small table near the kitchen that only housed the nessessities. In the bedroom there were only a small bed and a dresser for his clothes, and next to the bedroom was a tiny bathroom to complete the flat. With a steaming mug full of the caffinated beverage held in his trembling hands, he plopped down on one of the chairs and stared outside. After a short time of this, he had to open the window a bit to let in some fresh air. This was one of the biggest problems with this flat; it always felt stuffy and closed in. Tired hazel eyes closed as John relished the cool air flowing in and surrounding him. It almost felt peaceful, until memories began to flow through his mind as freely as the cool breeze.

_"The weather is pleasant, isn't it?" Sherlock had asked one day as they were on their way to the gorcery store. Ever since the fight between John and the machine, he had begun to accompany him to the store, unless he was busy with a case or locked away in his mind palace again ('If you keep getting into fights with those things we will never get any food, so I might as well make sure it doesn't happen again, correct?' he had countered when John had stared at the taller man in amazement). _

_"I thought you didn't care about such things, Sherlock." John had replied in a slightly mocking tone, shooting the detective a smirk. _

_"I don't, but I can appreciate them from time to time. It's weather like this; the cool breeze and the bright sunshine, that allows me to think best. I suppose in a way it makes me feel...almost peaceful." _

_John stared at his friend, trying to figure out if he was mocking in some form or being sarcastic. After all, Sherlock deleted information from his mind that he did not deem important and was never one to understand feelings in general, often dismissing it as sentiment and moving on. But staring at Sherlock, John could see that he indeed was being completely serious. His normally cold and calculating blue eyes were trained at the sky, narrowed as to be almost closed completely as he relished the cool breeze that flowed all around them. John had never seen this side of Sherlock before, and he was certain he was probably the only person who had ever seen him like this. A smile spread across the army doctor's face, a warm and tender one. He couldn't help but notice how young and alive the other man looked like this, guard down and smiling, staring at the sky. The smile was very small, but genuine this time. Beautiful was the only word Jonh could come up with the describe such a sight, and upon realizing this crimson seeped onto his face. He quickly looked away to hide it. In what felt like no time at all, the store was in sight and Sherlock reverted back to his old self once more, but John would never forget this, as short as it lasted. No, this was something that he would cherish for a long time; he could possibly use this as blackmail in the future...possibly. _

John pushed the memory back into the farthest reaches of his mind, a fresh wave of tears flowing freely down his face. No matter where he went, or what he did, Sherlock always seemed to invade his mind, breaking his heart all over again. He covered his face with his trembling hands and began to sob openly. It had been years since his best friend had left him. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, wasn't it? Was that how the saying went? John deduced that this wound, the pain and the loss and the emptyness, would be the cruel exception. It was too deep, too sharp to heal. He sobbed harder still upon realizing that it would probably not get any better.

_'Oh, God, how I wish this pain would stop...'_ he thought with anguish. He slowly lifed his head out of his hands, not even bothering to wipe the tear stains away. Without even realizing it, his eyes were trained on something sitting on the floor. With a flood of relief wahsing over him he reazlied it was a solution. A way to end the pain that had plagued him for so long. Without giving a second thought, his fingers were wrapped around his gun; strong and steady now. Slowly he lifted it towards his head. This was it, the only solution. With one pull of the trigger, the pain would stop, and he would get to be with Sherlock again, safe in Heaven or wherever he would end up. A small smile graced his chapped lips.

"I will see you soon, Sherlock..." he whispered, closing his eyes and bracing himself for his final act of pulling the trigger. A breeze flew from the window, surrounding John and bringing with it a sound the broken man thought he would never hear again. The sound of the violin graced his ears, playing the most beautiful melody he had ever heard. The notes were haunting, softly played, and surrounded him in a shield of peacefulness that he never expected to feel anymore. The gun was lowered and set on the ground as John slowly crept to the window and stared out into the darkness, hoping to find the source of the beautiful music. There was nothing to be found, and in utter confusion he plopped once again in his seat. He closed his eyes to better hear the haunting melody; to let it wash over him and surround him with peace and calm. With one last sigh and a small smile, he drifted off into sleep as the violin played, and for once, no nightmares haunted him for the rest of the night.

Hidden in the shadows of the darkness, a tall and lanky figure stood staring up into a nearby window, having the perfect view of the now sleeping John as he played his violin gracefully. With a flourish the song ended, and the figure, now certain the man by the window was fast asleep and would be for a while, gave one last sorrowful and longing look at him before escaping into the night. Two words were whispered before the figure took leave.

"Soon, John..."

With a flourish the figure dashed away. It was too dangerous to stay here for very long. Too many strict rules were broken as it was just for leaving the safety of the private flat that was accomodated to keep hidden. But John was not sleeping, not eating. He was suffering. This problem was going to be corrected, no matter what happened to the mysterious figure slipping back to safety.


	2. Memories and Pain

**Authors Note: Oh my gosh, thank you all so much for your support! You have no idea how much this means to me! And guess what? Since there seemed to be a good amount of wonderful readers who so kindly requested me to continue, I shall do just that! I am hopefully going to be busting out more chapters soon! I seriously love you guys and it makes me so happy to know that you all like what I am writing! Thanks again~! 3 **

John awoke to bright, harsh, sunlight blinding him. He blinked a couple of times, adjusting to the sudden light change. He couldn't help but smile slightly as realization dawned on his sleep dazed mind. He had fallen asleep, without nightmares, and actually _stayed_ asleep. He pondered just how long it had been since this had happened, and could not come up with an exact length of time. It had been a while, he knew for sure, and he had the mysterious violin player to thank for the best sleep he had gotten in so long.

"But who are you?" he couldn't help but ask himself. He tried to think of all the possibilities as he limped over to the kitchen to make tea. It helped him to think. It couldn't possibly be anyone he knew; he had left 221 B long ago and left no clue as to where he had moved to. He had not felt like being very social as of late, and had not kept contact with anyone. Besides, the only person he knew who could play the violin was Sherlock and he-

_No! This has been the best you have felt in so long, don't spoil it. Keep thinking! _

It was highly unlikely a random stranger noticed he was awake at three in the morning and decided to play the violin until he fell asleep, and he hadn't seen anyone outside. The only possible explnation was that maybe someone who lived close by just happened to begin to play the lovely tune at just the right time. It was luck, pure and simple, that had saved him. With a sigh, he brought the steaming cup to his lips and took a small sip. He allowed the warm drink to flow down his throat and fill his whole body with comforting warmth. A knock on the door startled him out of his short lived comfort. The knock sounded hesitant, unsure.

John grabbed his cane, wincing at the sharp pain in his leg with every cautious step he took towards the door. Who could possibly be calling on him? No one knew where he was living.

_I guess there is only one way to find out..._

He absolutely did not want to find out. He did not want to deal with the pitying looks, the questions about his well-being. It would bring the pain back, and he wasn't sure how much pain he could take anymore before it drove him completely insane. The knocking sounded again, this time more loudly and confidently. With one last deep intake of breath to steady himself, John opened the door to find a very concerned looking Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"John. I was worried that you were not going to answer the door for a moment there." came the greeting from the visitor's lips, sounding full of relief.

"Greg. How on Earth did you find me here?" John asked gruffly. He was still not on best terms with the Detective Inspector, and he was not going to pretend otherwise. He had turned his back on Sherlock, after everything he had done. He had fallen right into Moriarty's trap.

"Honestly, John! I wouldn't be able to keep my job if I couldn't at least do that. You haven't fallen completely off the map you know, even though it seems like you tried hard to."

John sighed and he couldn't help but roll his eyes ever so slightly. There was only one person who could be able to pinpoint his exact location. And it certainly was not Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, no matter how intelligent (or lack thereof, according to Sherlock) he was.

"You went to Mycroft, didn't you?" John deduced in a slightly accusing tone. If there was one person he absolutely couldn't stand at the moment, it would be Mycroft Holmes. After all, _he _was the reason Sherlock had gotten into that mess to begin with.

"He owed me a few favors, John. Mrs. Hudson came into my office one day and practically begged me to check on you; She has been worried sick, you know. You shouldn't have left like that. You should have told her. I went to Mycroft and he was able to track you down easily."

"You can tell Mrs. Hudson that I appreciate her concern, but I don't need to be 'checked on' like a child. I am a grown man, a soldier. I can take care of myself perfectly fine." came John's terse reply as he began to shut the door. Greg put his hand on the door, keeping it in place.

"Like hell you can. Look at you! It looks like you haven't eaten or slept well in ages! You left without even telling anyone, and haven't kept contact with your friends at all! Have you even _left _this place since you moved in other than to get a few gorceries?" Lestrade demanded in a worried tone.

John just glared at the man on the other side of the door. How dare he show up here uninvited and act like he cared! After turning his back on him and Sherlock like that, no less! He voiced this to the uninvited guest, his tone getting more and more venomous with every word. He was not looking for pity, not looking to be taken care of or checked on.

"Do you think I _wanted_ to believe that he was a fake?! Do you honestly think that I _wanted _to arrest him and turn my back on him and you?! I had no choice in the matter! I was given orders and I had to follow them! I trusted him, John! Why do you think I always let him do whatever he wanted during a case? Because I knew and trusted that he would get the job done right! Even though we had our problems, I had his back John! I tried and fought so hard to get the others to believe that he wasn't a fraud, I really did! So don't you make it sound like I just casually threw all that away and abandoned you both!" Lestrade retaliated, eyes narrowing in frustration at the ex army doctor.

John shook his head and tried to take deep breaths. He couldn't deal with this right now. It was too hard.

"Is there a particular reason you came here other than to play babysitter?" he asked, voice gentler but still edgy. Lestrade sighed in defeat. There was no getting through to him right now, he was too upset.

"Actually, when Mrs. Hudson came to me she had something that she wanted you to look through as well. She didn't know what to do with it all." he answered evenly, and John looked down and noticed that Lestrade was carrying a rather large box in his hands. How could he have missed that before? Maybe Sherlock was right; he was pretty much an idiot.

"Come on in, then." he replied in a semi-apologetic tone. He did not want to see what was inside the box. He had a feeling what it was, and he didn't cherish the thought of going through Sherlock's things at all. Too much pain, too many memories. Greg walked inside and set the box down giving the flat a quick look over as he did so.

"Would you like some tea?" John asked, silently hoping the answer was no. If nothing else, however, when a guest was inside his place, he was polite. It had been drilled into him when he was young.

"No, thank you. I really should get back to the office. You are a bit of a ways away, you know that right?" Lestrade replied with a small half smile. He was trying to make a joke, to make the argument blow over, John knew. He couldn't help but feel guilty. Greg had done nothing too terribly wrong. He shouldn't have shouted at him that way. But John couldn't handle it. He couldn't talk and joke around as if everything were better now that a few years had passed. This had been weighing heavily on him, and he couldn't just shrug it off and let it go.

"Yeah, I know. I just...didn't see the point in staying real close anymore." John replied, looking down at his shoes. Anything too keep him from seeing the pity that lined Lestrade's face.

"You're not doing too good, are you?" the Inspector asked at length, walking over to John and puting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I'm fine." came the gruff reply as John shrugged away from the other man's touch.

"If you ever need to talk, you can call me. You can call anyone. We will listen to anything you have to say, you know that." Lestrade conceded, sounding far less than convinced.

"Yeah, I'll do that, thanks." John replied as his visitor hesitantly left the flat, closing the door softly behind him. Plopping tiredly down on his chair, his eyes couldn't help but focus themselves on the box that lay on the floor nearby. He didn't want to open it. He was unsure if he could handle seeing Sherlock's things. But after a while, curiosity began to get the better of him. What was in there that Mrs. Hudson was unsure what to do with? He silently pleaded that no body parts or other disgusting items like the skull were housed in there as he slowly made his way to the box and hesitantly opening it.

"Oh dear God..." he choked out as the contents became visible. The very first thing he saw was the coat and scarf. He gulped down sobs and blinked away tears before they overcame him completely. He couldn't do this. He shouldn't have allowed Lestrade to leave it here. He should have made him take it back to the office with him. But now that it was opened John couldn't help himself. He took out a piece of paper, stating the contents. It was written by Greg himself.

_Contents as follows: _

_Coat_

_Scarf_

_2 small sets of science equipment_

_Skull? _ Crap, the skull was indeed in there.

_Sheet music _

_Pictures (Unframed) _

_Violin_

_Clothing Items (Suits and Shirts) _

_Cell phone _

John took out the pictures first, afraid they would get bent out of shape if left in the box for too long. Sherlock had always hated pictures, and hated his being taken even more. He considered them to be sentiment, and therefore unimportant and unnecessary. But John did not care in the least. He took pictures of almost anything that suited him. He idly flipped through some, pictures of friends and events allowed memories to flow through his mind like a home movie.

One picture made him stop cold and it took everything the poor man had to not burst out in sobs right then and there. It was him and Sherlock during their Christmas get together with their friends. The memory played through his mind and John could feel his heart breaking all over again. Sherlock had been adamant about not being photographed, but John had forced him. Sherlock thought it was silly that John would want a picture with him when he was living with him, but he begrudgingly posed anyway. The result was a smiling John, and Sherlock shooting his friend a look that showed his annoyance, but there was a hint of an amused smile and a certain light and tenderness in his eyes.

"Sherlock..." John whispered in grief. He set the pictures on the table. He couldn't take looking at them anymore. Sherlock's scarf was hanging partially out of the box, and he grabbed it and held it close to him for comfort. It smelled just like Sherlock; of mint and his soap and a small hint of smoke for the times where he gave into the craving. Tears flew from John's eyes as he began to full out sob into the material. He never should have opened that box. He cried until there were no more tears, and finally collapsed onto the chair. He was utterly exhausted. He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes images of Sherlock falling to his death plagued him and shook him so much sleep was becoming impossible. Just when he began to give up on sleep entirely, something caught his attention. The sound of the violin was playing the same beautiful lullaby as the other night, through the window that John had accidentally left open. The peaceful notes filled his mind and surrounded him with a feeling of calm.

"Who are you?" John whispered hoarsely as he again looked out, watching for any sign of the mystery musician, and again found nothing. It sounded so close! But the weight of the day began to crash around him, forcing his eyes to slowly close and drift off. He was fast asleep when the song ended and the hidden figure darted back out into the night.


	3. Emotions

**Author's Note: Oh my gosh I am so happy that so many people are reading and liking my story! Wow, I cannot thank you all enough! But this chapter is going to be in Sherlock's point of view, which is nicely different. Unfortunately, this was a BEAST to write, but hopefully I did him justice. I am not entirely happy with this chapter, but maybe I will come back and improve it? Anyway, thanks again and I hope you enjoy this chapter! **

Sherlock Holmes crept his way up to Molly Hooper's flat, where she had been kind enough to let him stay until it was safe enough for him to come back. His sharp blue-grey eyes narrowed, calculating the scene before him.

_Light is on. Very dim. Coming from bedroom. _

_Scratches on door from key. Someone entered in a hurry. Molly, most likely. _

_Unusual for her to be home early, always stays late. Something important happen? _

_Need more data._

The consulting detective entered the flat, noticing the door was already unlocked. Molly was expecting him. True to his deduction, moments later Molly Hooper entered the room looking dazed and frightened.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, hands on her hips, as she gave Sherlock a quick once over.

"I was out. What happened?" he replied evenly, raising his eyebrow slightly at her peculiar behavior. Molly always was a slightly nervous individual, but he could tell by the slight tremor of her hand and the panic written in her eyes that there was something more to it.

"With your violin, Sherlock? Do you _want _to get caught? Or worse, killed? What about the rest of us? Do you want all of us to be killed as well?" she snapped. She was glaring daggers at him now, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel slightly unsettled. This was completely unlike the gentle, caring, and soft spoken woman.

"Something's happened, hasn't it? What is it?" he asked instead, effectively moving the questions away from himself.

"You're the genius, aren't you? I am sure you already know by now. Figure it out." Molly huffed as she sank onto the couch.

"Alright, you are scared; almost on the verge of a full out panic attack. This obviously means that something bad has occured. Your phone is in your hand, so it was a text that set you off. You are worried about me, and the only other person who knows I am alive is Mycroft. If the text is from Mycroft, it must have something to do with the rest of Moriarty's cohorts. And judging by your reaction to the news Mycroft told you, I am in danger of being discovered. Am I correct so far?" Sherlock deduced in a long and unbroken string of words.

Molly stood abruptly and almost ran to the detective, stopping just short of being able to touch his face. Unspoken and powerful anger glinted in her eyes for the briefest moment before she effectively hid it away.

"Mycroft has lost all connection with the last and one of the worst men on Moriarty's team! Completely lost it all! He has no idea where the man is or what he is going to do! Obviously a safe guess is that he is going to come here! If he knows you are alive he _will_ come after you, Sherlock! And if not you then one of the people you have been in contact with, maybe even John!"

Molly's voice was reaching the point of almost screaming this to her flat mate. Panic etched onto her features and made her start to tremble. Sherlock tried to keep his face as even as possible as the news played through his mind like the notes from his violin. Pure and total disbelief coursed through him. How the hell had _Mycroft _of all people lost one of the most dangerous men left in Moriarty's ring?

_"If not you then one of the people you have been in contact with, maybe even John!"_

Sherlock's heart instantly ran ice cold as the full weight of what Molly had said sank in (much slower than usual). John was in danger. The man obviously wouldn't be coming to see the detective; he took great pains to make sure that no one knew where he was located, even if the off chance would arise that someone did find out he was alive. But if Moriarty's cohort had even the slightest inkling that Sherlock was indeed alive...

_He would go straight away to the person who he kept contact with the most. That person was John. _

Guilt and worry began to fight for dominance in the detective's heart. He tried to block it out the best he could, lock it away in his Mind Palace to deal with later, but he wasn't having much luck. The whole mess was entirely his fault. He had been the one to sneak out of the safety of Molly's flat the past couple of nights. He had been the one to see John almost kill himself and he had been the one to play the stupid violin. If he had stayed away, this might have been avoided. Anyone in the area could have heard him playing, even an informant working for Moriarty. Now it seemed like the better option for John would have been to die that night, compared to what must be coming.

_Damn sentiment..._

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you even listening? Sherlock!" Molly was trying desperately to get his attention, snapping him out of his sentiment induced thoughts.

"May I use your phone?" he asked, pushing down all emotions as best he could. He had lost his when he threw it before the fall.

"Yes, but you must answer one question. Truthfuly!" Molly countered, her voice steely, daring him to refuse.

"Oh, what is it now?" Sherlock demanded irritably. Couldn't she see this was more important at the moment?

"Why were you out in the middle of the night with your violin in the first place?" she asked, her voice softening a bit. "And you have to tell me the truth, Sherlock." she added when the detective did not answer straight away, buying his time to come up with a reasonable answer.

"I visited John. May I see the phone now?" he replied, void of all emotion. He did not want to have this conversation now. His emotions might very well get the best of him.

"You. Did. What?!" Molly cried in astonishment. The panic and anger had returned full force, and she hadn't the heart to mask them now. "He knows you're alive?!"

"Of course he doesn't know I'm alive!" Sherlock retorted, rolling his eyes. "I never talked to him, Molly. Please try to control yourself. Panic does not suit you."

"No, you have done something much worse than talking to him. You played for him didn't you? You played your violin in the middle of the night where anyone could hear you! And of course John will start putting two and two together! You are just making it worse on the poor man! How could you show up to his house and play your stupid violin and leave without even telling him you are alright?!" Molly had had enough.

"Because I had to!" Sherlock retaliated, eyes narrowing. Molly was taken aback by the pain in his voice, sounding harsh and raw. Sherlock Holmes was not one to give in to emotions, often locking them as far away as possible, before they could interfere with his work.

"Sherlock..." she whispered, softening immsensely. She wanted to help him. She could tell he had been feeling this way for a long while.

"I had no choice. If I could have done this differently then I would have. I never wanted to hurt John, or Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade. And I never intended to interfere with John until it was safe for me to come back. I went out with my violin to think and for some fresh air. I happened upon John's flat by mistake." the detective explained, pushing all emotion as far back as he could. He had lied about arriving to John's flat by mistake. He wanted to go there more than anything else; he wanted to see him. In the years since his 'death,' Sherlock had found it difficult to think properly, to focus on his work in defeating Moriarty's remaining men. His mind would always find it's way back to John, constantly wondering how he was doing or what he would think in a certain situation. No matter how many times he would retreat into his Mind Palace to put all the feelings and thoughts away and lock them up, the thoughts still came. There was still that empty feeling, as if something important was missing from him. Seeing John again was the only thing that had kept the detective going all that time.

"What happened, Sherlock? What made you play for him?" Molly was asking, snapping him out of his thoughts. He was beating around the bush, and she was determined to get the straight answer from him.

"He...he had a gun pointed straight at his head, what was I supposed to do? I wasn't going to stand there and watch him die, Molly! I did the only thing I could think of! Yes, I played the stupid violin to calm him down! Yes, I know I shouldn't have done it. And yes, I know that John being in danger now is completely my fault!" Sherlock couldn't control the emotions that poured out in his voice. He couldn't stop the worry and the regret and the pain that plagued him from rearing their ugly heads. Before he could even tell what was happening, Molly was there, standing in front of him, close enough to touch. Her face was so full of sympathy that it was almost disgusting.

"Sherlock, go to him. He's already in danger, you might as well be there to protect him." her voice was soft, caring. "It would do you two a world of good."

"No, Molly, I can't. It is too dangerous. Right now, he could be there watching him, waiting for me to show up and kill him. Just like Moriarty made clear." Sherlock's voice became void of all emotion, his face became blank. He bottled the emotions up, locked them away in his mind palace until he could sort through them.

"Sherlock...if there's anything I could do..."

"Actually, there might be something. But before we get to that, I need to make a phone call."

With a flourish, he took the phone Molly handed to him and dialed an all too familiar number. It was a number he wished he did not have to dial at all, but it was a necessary evil that he had to deal with.


	4. An Old Friend

**Author's Note: ****Well, after what seemed like an eternity, HERE IS CHAPTER FOUR! I am so sorry for taking so long guys! Writer's block sucks! I am also sorry for writing a horrible chapter. I hope you guys keep reading this anyway, because I love you all! And I am sure you are all pretty confused about Ian's story, am I right? I didn't want to go by the books (creative liscence, deal with it, hahaha! ), so I created my own villain! It will make more sense later on, I promise. And yes, my friends, the reuinion is coming up soon! Things are starting to heat up now! I hope you like this chapter, and keep reading more! I love you guys! Sherlock and all that sexyness does not belong to me. Sadly. **

**PS. I am toying with the notion of eventually writing a Mystrade fanfic that takes place before this story happens, a kind of a prequel, if you will. Let me know what you think of this idea, please! Feedback is always welcome!**

The clouds hung low in the sky, thick and grey with rain that just would not fall. A cold chill hung in the air, carried all over the city by the strong wind. John had only one word that could describe such weather; miserable. He could tolerate normal weather, with sun and blue skies and white puffy clouds. Bleakness like this was much more difficult. In good weather he could at least go outside and take a walk, or anything to distract his mind from unwanted thoughts and memories that he could not seem to get rid of. On days like this, however, when staying in his flat deemed to be the best choice, he could not escape them. He had the box Lestrade had given him hidden away; a desperate and vain attempt at forgetting about it and keeping the flashbacks and pain at bay. The only thing that ever made him forget, or at least made the pain go away, was the beautiful melody that played for him and lulled him to a semi-decent sleep every night. But then he would have to wake up, and the emotions would all rush back to him, crushing him like a ton of bricks hitting his chest. The only thing that ever got him through the day was the hope that the music would come back that night.

John sighed as he took a small sip of his tea, watching the wind blow various items of litter playfully across the street. He tried to deduce where a plastic bag would end up before the wind carrying it died based on direction and speed, but he got absolutely nowhere.

"Sherlock would call me an idiot." he whispered to the emptiness of his flat. "And would tell me that I see but do not observe."

A cynical grin spread across his mouth at the idea, but quickly fell when he realized how much he _wanted _to hear Sherlock say that to him. To hear Sherlock say anything to him.

"That is probably not too far from the truth, actually." a voice rang out from behind him, and John whirled in his seat to find himself staring right into the glassy aqua eyes of a man who he thought would never see again.

"W-What are you doing here and how did you even get in?" the army doctor demanded in surprise. His visitor merely grinned slyly, his eyes shining in a way that sent shivers down John's spine.

"Just like you said;_ you see but do not observe." _his voice came out cool and slippery, reminding John of a snake. The words that Sherlock so often dictated to him sounded completely wrong and misplaced coming from that voice.

"I had the door locked tight. How the hell did you get in here, Ian?" John demanded, all surprise erased from his voice. The last person in the world he ever wanted to see was his old army mate Ian Hatfield. He would even take seeing Mycroft Holmes over him.

"Your flat isn't exactly a fortress, Johnny Boy. I picked the lock." Ian replied with a wink. "Are you impressed?"

"Not in the slightest." John huffed with a glare. "What are you even doing here?"

"Why, can't a man visit his old friend from time to time? Is that such a crime?"

John stared at the man who broke into his flat, not even bothering to hide his distaste. His vision shifted from his too-shiny aqua eyes to the long scar cutting across his left eye and down his cheek. He took in the man's posture; muscles coiled and body tense, as if ready for a fight. Ian's greasy chocolate brown hair was unkempt and partly partly fell in his eyes. There was nothing about him that showed a man who came to visit an old friend. A small voice in his head urged him to run.

"No, but breaking and entering is." he retaliated evenly, not taking his eyes of Ian for a moment.

"Oh come now, John. That's not how you should treat someone who has come all this way to see you. You should feel honored!" Ian replied, a wicked smile spreading across his slightly wrinkled face to show not-so-healthy-looking teeth. "But if you really must know, there is another reason why I have come paying you a visit."

"And what reason would that be?" John asked warily. Ian's face fell slightly, his eyes showing the deepest concern.

"I have come to help you John."

"To help me? Why would you help me? Last time we were together we didn't exactly leave on the best terms, if you remember." John replied skeptically.

"Oh, Johnny Boy. I have long ago forgiven you for what happened back there. I have come to terms with it now. I have moved on with my life. You were my best mate. You helped me through so much, it is now my turn to help you."

John just stared in complete and utter shock and confusion. His mouth hung open, and his eyes were wide. Words would not come to reply. What on Earth was going on? He silently wished Sherlock were there to explain things to him.

"Tell me, John. Have you heard anything about Sherlock Holmes? Anything at all?"

That question nearly knocked all the breath out of the army doctor. Out of everything that he had expected Ian to say, this wasn't even on the list. He sank down into his chair, not even remembering when he had stood. His face turned gostly white. Was this a joke? A sick and cruel joke that Ian was playing to get back at him? If it was, the humor failed to be seen by John.

"Sherlock...is dead." he snapped, voice surprsingly steely and unwavering. He could fight the pain. He had been doing that for years, and the music had made it slightly better. The anger was harder to fight, and he made no effort in controlling it. "He has been dead for years and you know it, so you better take your leave now before you risk an _incident." _

Ian did not as much as flinch at the strong words and heated tone. If anything, John could almost swear that he saw the man's eyes shine even more brightly than before. He kneeled in front of him, forcing them to make eye contact quite closely.

"There are bad people out there, Johnny Boy. Bad people that would do anything to get back at you and Sherlock Holmes for putting them in jail or whatever. The moment they hear anything about Sherlock, the tiniest little thing, you can be sure they will strike hard. You could be in grave danger with that man." Ian explained, his voice in an overly dramatic hushed tone. John's eyes narrowed into slits and his hands curled into fists. His patience was wearing thin.

_"Sherlock. Holmes. Is. Dead." _he spat out every word with barely surpressed anger. He punctuated each word so as to be completely and utterly clear on the matter. "There is no reason why they would do anything at all because he is gone and is not coming back!"

"Ah, are you so sure about that?" Ian asked, eyebrow raised. A small smirk made it's way across his lips, and it took all the self control that John had to resist punching it clean off. "I can help you out, you know. If you hear anything about Sherlock at all, call me and I can protect you both. Keep you from getting hurt. It might just save his life... and yours."

Without another word, Ian placed a small piece of paper on the table and left as quickly and quietly as he came. John didn't move an inch. He sat in his seat, breathing heavily, trying to control the rage making his blood boil. This was a trick. A horrible prank. It had to be. Not quite sure what was possessing him to do such a thing, he abruptly launched himself out of the chair and made his way to his bedroom and found the small safe hidden in his miniature closet. He entered the combination and grabbed the box of Sherlock's things, rummaging through it, not even sure what he was looking for if anything at all. He paused and held up the list, skimming it quickly.

_Contents as follows: _

_Coat_

_Scarf_

_2 small sets of science equipment_

_Skull? _

_Sheet music _

_Pictures (Unframed) _

_Violin_

_Clothing Items (Suits and Shirts) _

_Cell phone _

Wait, violin? He stared at the word on the list for several moments before looking down at the box, rummaging around and taking out every item (minus the skull, he would never touch that thing). Everything was accounted for, all except for one very important item.

_The violin was missing. _

John grabbed Sherlock's cell phone, praying to find something, anything that would make sense out of this, but the phone was damaged from being thrown and would not turn on. He grabbed his own and quickly dialed Lestrade's number, hoping against hope that the detective inspector was not too busy.

"John? Are you alright?" Greg's voice answered on the third ring, concern evident.

"I'm fine Greg, really. Did you happen to take out Sherlock's violin from his box of things when Mrs. Hudson dropped it off with you?" John's voice came out quick and sharp, no doubt sounding like a crazed lunatic, but he could care less. He had to know.

"N-No, I didn't. And no one else had it besides Mrs. Hudson and me. It was there when I first had it and made the list of items. Why, is it missing?" Lestrade answered, confusion mixing in with the always present worry for him.

"Yes, it's missing. How long did you have the box before you gave it to me?" John demanded, wincing when he realized how rude and crazed he was acting.

"Well, it took time for Mycroft to track you down. A few weeks." came the answer. John did not say a word for a moment, shock and fear and the slightest feeling of hope washing over him like a wave.

"I see. Thank you." he replied at length. "Wait, you had Mycroft track me down? When did you start talking to him?"

He could hear Lestrade cough slightly on the other end, and the sound of him shifting in his seat.

"W-Well...we've been talking for a bit. You know...to get Sherlock's things in order and such. Money and wills and whatnot...look, we've already talked about this!"

John almost laughed out loud. Lestrade never sounded so nervous before. He couldn't help but wonder the real reason they met. It didn't take a genius to figure out how badly the detective inspector was lying.

"Oh, we did?" he asked after a moment, instead of calling him out of his lie. In all truth, every day seemed to blend into the next for him, making his memory slightly faulty.

"Yes we did! John, are you sure you are alright?"

"Perfectly fine. Thank you for the information." he replied with a small smile, his voice lighter and kinder in a slight apology for his rudeness earlier.

"Right, no problem. Call me anytime, alright? I will keep a look out for the violin. I know how much it meant to him."

"I will do that, thank you." with that John hung up the phone, and instantly the problem at hand tore his smile down. Sherlock's violin was gone, stolen while still with Lestrade. He hadn't said anything of a break in, so whoever took it was clever and sneaky. There was only one person in the world who would be brilliant enough to break in to Scotland Yard and not be caught. There was only one person in the world who out of everything that could be stolen there, would choose the violin. John's breath caught in his throat. Could it be possible?

_No. You are reading too much into this. He is not alive. It's not possible, you saw him fall! _

John sighed and frustratedly stalked out of his room, unable to look at the box for another second.


	5. Caring Is Not An Advantage

**Author's Note: **

Sherlock breathed out another puff of smoke, watching the perfect circle float into the air above him. He stood on Molly's balcony in the cool crisp air, sheltered from the rain that came in a torrential downpour. His tired eyes took in every detail of his surroundings for what felt like the hundredth time. He had never been one to sleep very much; doing so would interfere with his work, and the only thing that mattered was his mind, anyway. Everything else was just transport. But even the consulting detective could tell that he had been awake for far longer than deemed wise, even to his standards. He had tried many times to fall asleep, even for a few hours, knowing what John would say if he didn't, but it would never come to him. Everytime he closed his eyes, the only thing that greeted him would be unwanted memories playing through his mind like a home movie. Memories that haunted him and toyed with him, never leaving his head until after much difficulty shoving them to the deepest dungeuns of his mind palace, always leaving him wanting something more than a cigarette to rid the emotions away. Something precisely seven percent stronger. Reaching idly into his coat pocket, he fingered the stash that rested there, completely out of sight. Maybe if he had some, just a tiny bit, it would clear his mind enough to sleep for just a little while? He was getting tired of Molly's constant worrying glances and her questions about his well being.

Almost as if fate were reading his thoughts, Sherlock heard the front door click in the distance as none other than Molly Hooper herself arrived back home. He put out his cigarette and took his hand out of his pocket, leaving his stash alone for now.

"I'm home Sherlock, and I brought some food for dinner!" she greeted chipperly, despite being drenched. "That is, if you actually are planning on eating today."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, catching the worried and bitter undertone the second half of the greeting possessed.

"I'm-"

"Not hungry, I know." Molly interupted him before he could finish, looking at him with an expression that he could not quite identify.

_Lips curled slightly around the corners. Act normally taken when irritated. _

_Eyes narrowed, another act of irritation. Also a hint of pity and worry. _

_Hands on hips. More irritation. _

_Refusal to meet my gaze. An act of...shame? Pain? Regret? _

The consulting detective, the only one in the world, just stared without saying another word. For once in his life, he had failed to deduce Molly Hooper.

"You need to eat sometime, Sherlock. And sleep, too. You haven't been doing that either. In truth, you look horrible." she was saying, walking about the kitchen preparing dinner. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes at the lecture.

"I'm fine." he replied stiffly, becoming painfully aware of the weight of his stash weighing down his coat pocket.

"No you're not. Even I can see that. But if you go back to John, maybe you will be." Molly replied, her voice soft and quiet, filled with pity and sympathy. Before Sherlock could retort, her phone buzzed. He watched her quickly whip it out of her pocket and press a few buttons to open the message. He tensed as he watched her face turn completely white and her hands begin to shake.

"Molly." he called to her, voice edgy and rough as he stepped closer. She turned to him, eyes wide.

"I-I think it's for you, Sherlock." she whispered, too shaken to speak normally. She shakily handed him her phone, and the consulting detective snatched it impatiently. He quickly scanned the terse text, but had to re-read it again as his eyes widened in shock. The text was from Mycroft.

_One of my men just informed me they found the man we have been looking for. He got away before anyone could catch up. Trying to track him down but failing. He was at Doctor Watson's flat. -M.H. _

His heart almost stopped beating at that point. _He had been in John's flat. _The most dangerous criminal left from Moriarty's network was in John's flat, close to him, able to do anything he wanted.

_Able to kill..._

No! He couldn't think that. He couldn't think of John's face as he saw the knife, aimed right for his throat. He couldn't think of the surprised and frightened cry right before the death blow. He couldn't think of his last thoughts being of fear and sudden pain. And that Sherlock wasn't there to save him.

"Sherlock..." Molly whispered, but he paid her no heed. Without another word, he quickly dialed the number of his brother.

"Sherlock." Mycroft greeted, voice tired but otherwise sounding unconcerned. It made Sherlock's dislike for his brother that much more potent.

"Is he alright?" he demanded. He didn't care if he sounded rude. He had to know. "Is John alright?"

"Yes, he's quite alright, brother. It seems all they did was talk." came the smug reply.

"Last time we talked, you said you had the best men going to protect the place, Mycroft!"

"I did, and I _do." _Mycroft replied, exasperated.

"Oh? Is that why they let him get away? And let him go into John's flat and get close to him? He could have died!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, hands clenching into fists. He should have known better than to leave John's safety in the hands of complete idiots. It should have been him there to protect John. It should have been him to be with him and keep him from being in pain. But he hadn't. He had hurt his friend countless times, insulted him, made him watch his death. He had left John alone and broken, and in horrible danger. Jumping off of the building suddenly seemed unnecessary and idiotic to his eyes. It certainly didn't keep John safe.

_More. I should have done more for him..._

"He is quite clever and quick. It is a wonder they caught sight of him at all. I told you, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage. It never has, and never will." Mycroft was saying. Sherlock did not even grant those words with a response. He hung up and set the cell phone not so gently on the counter.

"Sherlock...is he alright?" Molly whispered, voice catching when she witnessed the murderous expression on her flatmate's face.

"For now." was the only response he granted her. Before she could say anything else, he stalked past her and into the room where he was staying. The stash in his pocket was becoming unbearably heavy to him now.

"Sherlock!" Molly cried to him, worry sounding in her voice. Sherlock once again paid her no heed. She was always worried about him. It wouldn't change anything for him to speak to her. The door shut with a satisfying thud as he sank down onto the bed. He burried his face in his hands and sighed. This was all his fault. If anything had happened to John, there would be no one but him to blame. For not being there to save him, to protect him.

He finally relieved the burden of the too heavy stash from his pocket, staring at it without really seeing it. A hit, just one small one, would be enough to plunge him in the beautiful world of high that he knew all too well. It would be enough for him to get lost in the euphoria, no longer caring, no longer feeling. Why? Why did he have to care about John Watson? Why did he have to feel so many confusing emotions whenever he thought of him?

Mycroft was right. Caring was certainly not an advantage. All it did was put John in danger and hurt him. If only Sherlock had been able to stay away. If only he hadn't played the bloody violin that night. If only he hadn't cared at all. When he had first met John, he had made a silent vow to not get wrapped up in feelings or caring. He made a vow not to make friends with the man. He was not there to be a friend. He was there to help pay rent, nothing more. But somehow the doctor had made his way where no other person had gone before. He had somehow made his way to his heart, and Sherlock had let him.

_And look where that got you, Sherlock. _

John was in danger, all because Sherlock had made the mistake of caring. Ian Hatfield, the last and most dangerous of Moriarty's network, was no doubt looking for him when he entered John's flat. Making sure he had not come back.

_"Caring is not an advantage. It never has, and never will." _

The fix to caring, to feeling, was right in front of him. The small bag was already opened, ready to be emptied of it's burden. Sherlock would be transported to the beautiful place full of colors and swirls, and he wouldn't have to care. He wouldn't have to feel anymore. No more hiding, no more pain or fear. No more John. He slowly began to reach into the bag. His body, his mind, was screaming for it. Screaming for the relief that would come. Screaming for the colors and swirls and peace.

"Sherlock, open up, please!" Molly called from the other side of the door, snapping Sherlock out of his reverie. He glared at the door. How dare she try to stop him, to keep him in the world of pain and caring?

"Sherlock, I know this is hard for you. It's been hard on all of us, so very hard. But you don't have to hide anymore. You don't have to sit there and lose your mind over all of this. You can leave. You can go back to John. He will need your protection from Moriarty's men, and Mycroft can't do it all on his

own. Mycroft's security aren't as clever as you, Sherlock. They won't be able to see him coming, but you could. You could keep John safe from him. You can play your violin for him every night and make him sleep well; I won't have to play the recording for him anymore."

Molly was pleading, and Sherlock could picture her face as the words made their way to his ears. She would have tears in her eyes, her hands would be shaking from emotions she was trying to control. She was trying so hard to be calm, to be the voice of reason, to make everything be better. He slowly took his hand out of the wretched bag. Maybe she was right. He could go back to John. He would be able to make John better and protect him from Ian as well.

A shadow crossed his face as another thought popped into his mind. If he came back to protect him, that would make Ian come calling again. And who knows what he would do when he found out Sherlock Holmes, the man who was supposed to be dead, as part of the deal, was indeed not quite so.

"Look, I know you are probably fighting with yourself right now about going back. You think that he will come back and do worse things than talking if you do, and he very well might. But there's nothing stopping him from doing so without you coming back either. That man has a plan, from what little I know about him, and would probably go through with it. With or without you. I'm telling you, Sherlock, going back is probably the best thing to do."

Sherlock blinked back his surprise. How on Earth could Molly Hooper deduce all of that without even seeing his face or anything? And she had very little knowledge of Ian, to top it all off. Maybe he had greatly underestimated her. Perhaps she could be useful during cases after all. He would have to test that theory. He slowly hid the stash back into his pocket, planning on disposing of it later. He would have to be all there if he was going to protect John. The door opened to reveal Molly herself, true to his deduction, eyes full of unshed tears. He lowered his eyes to see her holding his violin. A flash of irritation flooded through him. No one touched his vilolin. Not even John dared to do so.

"Play for him, Sherlock. Make him better. You know you're the only one who can." she told him, voice soft and comforting. Slowly the violin was handed back to it's owner. "It won't do to have me keep playing that recording when he can have the real thing."

Sherlock couldn't help but stare at Molly. When had she gotten so much older? There were dark circles under her eyes, and some new lines across her face. No doubt from worrying about him. He couldn't help but wonder just how many other people he had done that to; how many people he had put through hell and given them grey hairs and worry lines across their faces. Mycroft, most definitely, but that hardly mattered. Lestrade was a given. He had put that poor man through many a loop in the time he had known him, and even more so recently. John...he couldn't even fathom what John must look like. It was a horrible thought.

"You should know that you were never in any danger by going to his flat and playing the recording, Molly. I wouldn't let that happen. I knew he was only after me, so he wouldn't think twice about seeing you with a recording. I figured that maybe if you were there and he happened to see you, he would doubt he ever saw me at all, if he ever did. I had hoped he would give up after that time. If you were frightened, I am sorry." he replied at length, gripping on to his violin tightly. He watched many emotions play across Molly's face, mouth forming words but closing before they could get out. Finally she settled on a sad little smile.

"I know." she whispered, allowing him to pass her to get to the front door after a moment of silence. She turned and watched him leave. "Go on home, now."

As he left, Sherlock couldn't help but wonder once more when Molly Hooper had changed so much.


	6. Coming Home

**Author's Note: The chapter everyone has been waiting for has arrived! THE REUINION IS FINALLY HERE! I hope this is as good as you imagined it would be, or amazingly impossible enough, even better. I highly doubt this really does them justice, but oh well. I tried. It seems like writer's block is my constant companion, so beating out this chapter was work! Anyway, you guys are all amazing, and reviews and the like is always appreciated. Also, did you all know I am currently taking requests? Well I am! It doesn't even have to be fandom related. I just want the extra practice and to put more stories on my account. Gahh, sorry about the long note! I will stop now! On with the story! **

Ever since the day he lost Sherlock, John had avoided 221 B like the plague. There were just too many memories kept inside; and far too much pain for him to handle. But now he found himself standing right outside the front door, soaked through from the rain that simply refused to let up. The only thought that was coherant in his mind was just one word: Why? Why was he standing right outside the door to the place that was certain to drive him over the edge? He was already hanging on to his sanity by a thread; after all, he did believe that there was a phantom violin player out there playing the most beautiful song he had ever heard every night to put him to sleep. That was definitely enough to cause his therapist concern.

The army doctor swiftly shook his head to clear out his thoughts when he realized he was slowly backing away from the door. He had to go in there. There had to be a clue, a sign, a note, _anything. _Ian would not have come by his flat asking about Sherlock if he had no reason to believe he was alive. He knew it was proposterous, and the chance of finding anything was slim at best, but the stubborn part of his heart desperately clung to the sliver of hope like a lifeline. If there was any way to prove that Sherlock was indeed alive somewhere, John Watson had to find it.

He slowly pushed open the front door, quietly to not disturb Mrs. Hudson. The last thing he needed was for her to come and ambush him with questions and guilt for leaving so abruptly. Up the stairs he went, taking deep, steadying breaths. His mind was already going through all the times he and Sherlock had run up these very stairs, either quickly and desperately for a case, or casually after a day out. As he got to the door, he had to wait a few moments to compose himself. He knew it was going to be bad if he already was beginning to fall apart just from climbing up the stairs.

_Get a hold of yourself, Watson! You are here for a reason! You can't be distracted by your emotions now; they won't mean anything if Sherlock is actually alive! _

Releasing his inner soldier, he squared his shoulders and kept his mind blank as he opened the door with determination. Thank goodness he hadn't bothered to lock the door when he left. Mrs. Hudson had always chastised them about it. Every bit of the soldier he had summoned suddenly fell away as the room glared back at him, all the contents of the room straightened up but still in their proper places. It was almost like nothing had ever happened. All the determination he had felt upon entering washed away as a gigantic wave of pain hit him like a ton of bricks. Again, the one word 'why' made it's way into his mind, the only coherant thought to be had. His stomach churned, his knees began to buckle from under him. Too much; everything was hitting him at once. All the memories, the good and bad, the feelings, it was all crashing around in his mind making everything seem fuzzy and dull to his eyes.

"Damn it..." he muttered, squeezing his eyes firmly shut and taking deep breaths. He wasn't going to find any evidence like this. He had to calm down, he had to _think. _Were there any indications that Sherlock would fake his death? Anything he said, or did? Nothing came to mind. John began to look around the flat, not entirely sure what to look for. Nothing jumped out at him as important.

"Come on, John! There has to be something! If he was alive he would have tried to find a way to tell me..." he muttered, running from room to room and searching every nook and cranny. He finally reached the door to Sherlock's bedroom. He had never been in there before, and he wasn't entirely sure he would want to go in now. He knew that the room would be full of him, full of _Sherlock. _With a shaking hands, he slowly pushed opened the door to reveal the contents within. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, exactly. Maybe science equipment all over the place. Strange body parts for his experiments was definitely a possibility. John was certainly not epexcting the neat and clean room in front of him. The good sized bed was perfectly made, probably due to the fact that Sherlock never slept in here to begin with. There were books stacked on his nightstand, probably for when he got bored and John was asleep. His closet was still full of his clothes. John slowly walked into the room, suddenly surrounded and filled to the brim with all things Sherlock. He couldn't stop the tears that fell from his eyes as he looked around. It almost was like Sherlock was there with him right at that moment.

Without even thinking, the doctor collapsed on the bed, suddenly exhausted. A smell overcame his senses, a smell of smoke, mint, and soap. The smell of Sherlock. John curled in on himself, brain no longer functioning. He was too overcome, in too much pain, and the memories bounced around in his mind refusing to be stilled. He was sobbing bordering on hysterical, but he hardly noticed. He shouldn't have come. He should have run away from this horrid place and never came back. There was nothing here but fragments of his past life, a life where he was happy and always in the middle of excitement. John angrily forced himself to uncurl himself like a child and layed on his back facing the ceiling. He was acting so childish. That life ended with Sherlock's. He had to move on. It had been years since then, and he was foolish for thinking that he might actually be alive. Ian was just messing with him, getting back at him. His arm fell from his chest onto the sheets, and he froze when he felt something strange. Something like paper. He jumped off of the bed like it had shocked him, and his eyes widened when he saw what was indeed a small piece of paper. He let out a barely muffled cry when he saw the five words scribbled on them in Sherlock's hand.

_It's just a magic trick. _

He remembered when his flatmate had said that to him, all those years ago from the top of that blasted hospital.

_"__It's a trick. Its just a magic trick."_

He never quite thought about those words since then. He just assumed he meant his ability to deduce, but was it possible he meant something else entirely? His heart began to swell with hope. The note on his bed. The 'just a magic trick' speech before he fell. The missing violin. The music every night to lull him to sleep. Everything began to fall into place, and John's mouth fell open into a gigantic 'o' in shock. He ran out of the room, planning on searching the flat top to bottom until he found something that could possibly tell him where Sherlock could be, but something made him pause. He could hear the faintest sound flowing just outside the closed window. He slowly opened it to hear a beautiful violin piece playing in the evening air. It wasn't the normal song that usually played him to sleep. John instantly recognized the song as the one that was Sherlock's favorite to play. A beautiful Bach piece that he couldn't remember the name to. His eyes began to close slightly, just listening to the music.

Wait. This was Sherlock's favorite song to play. _Sherlock's favorite song. _His eyes snapped open and dashed out the door into the pouring rain outside, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Could it possibly be? He almost didn't dare to believe it. The rain felt cold on his skin, but he hardly paid attention to the discomfort. His eyes scanned the street before him, looking for the man he thought he would never see again. All time seemed to stop when John finally found him, walking out from the shadows, hands expertly drawing the bow across the strings.

"S-Sherlock?" he managed to choke out, staring in total disbelief at the man before him.

"John." was the only word Sherlock spoke as he lowered the instrument, song ending abruptly. For the next few moments, they both just looked at each other, deducing everything they could.

"You're alive..." John couldn't help but breathe those two words out, full of relief and joy and pain.

"Yes, John. I am alive and well." the detective replied reassuringly, taking a cautious step forward. Alive and well. Two words John would never have thought would go with Sherlock again. A sudden anger flared through him, boiling his blood and causing his hands to shake.

"You have been alive and well for two years, and you never bothered to tell me. To let me know." his voice was surprisingly calm, but there was a hint of venom behind those words. No, way more than a hint. He was completely and utterly furious. He had been forced to go through all of that for _years_, been forced to think his best friend was dead. He had been forced to think that he could have saved him from that fate, but had failed. He marched forward until he was close enough to reach out and touch Sherlock, his flatmate instantly tensing up, ready for anything he might do. John felt his arm pull back distantly, but couldn't stop himself. His hand was balled into a fist, ready to connect to the face of a very deserving, no longer dead, consulting detective. But right before he carried out justice, he saw Sherlock, _really _saw him. He was extremely pale, and thinner than John had ever seen him. He obviously hadn't been eating. The horrible shadows under his eyes proved that he hadn't been sleeping either. He swayed slightly where he was standing, and John's doctor side kicked in instantly. He couldn't punch Sherlock right now. He was far too weak. He could save his anger for another time. Right now, what he needed was rest and food, and the doctor decided that he was going to be the one to give it to him.

"I'm sorry, John. I really am." Sherlock muttered, voice sounding completely dead, completely void of anything that showed the voice belonged to the detective at all. That scared John more than anything else.

"Come on inside, then. You won't do anyone any good by getting sick like this. You look like complete hell as it is." he replied after a moment, voice gentle. He watched as Sherlock's eyes widened in slight surprise, but then a small grin spread across his lips.

"If you haven't noticed, you don't look much better." he replied, tone lighter than before, more like it should.

"Well, it's not every day I get visited by a ghost Sherlock." John replied. He tried to keep his voice even, to keep his emotions in check. It was obvious Sherlock was not up to dealing with it right now. However, his voice broke at the end, and he couldn't stop his chest from heaving with sobs that he tried to push down. Warm salty liquid mixed with the cold rainwater down his face. He tried to turn away and begin the trek back to the flat so his companon wouldn't see, but his arm was caught and he was forced to face Sherlock, who's eyes seemed to be staring into his very soul. After a terrible moment of being scrutinized, and who knows how many deductions being made, Sherlock's arms suddenly surrounded him and pulled him close. John couldn't stop himself from burrying his face in Sherlock's shoulder and began to sob uncontrollably. Sherlock hugged back as best as he could, which was rather awkwardly. John didn't care in the least. He knew his flatmate very seldom let anyone touch him, so to have him willingly hug you was something almost unheard of. He just relished in the fact that he was here, alive. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, was back and safe. Granted they were standing awkwardly hugging in the pouring rain drenched through, and people would probably talk, but it didn't matter. People did little else, anyway. John just got Sherlock back, and he wasn't planning on letting him go anytime soon, not until all of his questions were answered.

"It's alright now, John. I'm back." Sherlock was saying, doing his best attempt at sounding soothing. John lifted his head to look at his friend.

"I know, but it's still hard to believe." With that, he pulled away composing himself as he did so. "We really should get inside. We are going to catch hypothermia out here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly in a teasing manner, but John could see him shiver. He didn't have his coat or scarf on. Without another word, Sherlock and John made their way back to 221 B, being as quiet as possible as to not gain the attention of Mrs. Hudson. They would let her know later.


	7. The Attack

**Author's Note: So, yeah. Here is chapter seven! I dedicate this chapter to the wonderful inoue6 who requested a bit with John getting injured. I am sorry if this isn't what you were looking for, or not detailed enough! Writer's block is the worst and I have never really written scenes like that before, but I promise there will be more where this came from (fair warning for those who don't like the idea of possible torture; I am still not sure about it yet. I promise I will put a warning up if I do decide to go along with it!). Anyway, I really hope you all continue to love and read it! On with the show! **

Screaming. Destruction. Chaos. Shouting. Pain. It all came in images stained in red whenever he closed his eyes. It never left him; those images became every part of his existence, and it was beautiful. Ian welcomed it all to enter his mind, to fester there and infect every fiber of his being with it's malice until everything was stained red; a deep, gorgeous, brilliant red, like blood. Like the spilled blood on the ground of his sister...

Now everything was stained an ebony black as rage coursed through Ian's body, causing him to tremble with the sheer magnitude. His aqua eyes narrowed into slits as he watched John Watson and the recently un-dead Sherlock Holmes from his computer screen. He would get his revenge, there was no doubt in his mind. His plan was perfect in every way. There was no way he could be stopped. It was already starting quite wonderfully; the cameras in John's flat and 221 B were child's play to hack through. If every defense against him were that easy to control, the plan; the wonderful, perfect plan would possibly be too easy and dull. A wicked smile spread across Ian's face. If it got too dull he would _make _it interesting. Moriarty himself would be proud of the sheer magnificence of it all.

_"Now Ian, I have given you everything you need. If I don't come back after this it is up to you. Sherlock will most likely find some way to cheat his death. You will need to fix that. What you do with John Watson is up to you, I know you've had a past with him haven't you? As long as you take care of Sherlock Holmes, I don't care." _

Yes, he would take care of Sherlock alright. He knew it would be grand. But what Ian was really looking forward to was taking care of John Watson. Oh, he would do far more than burn the heart out of him, as he often heard Moriarty exclaim. He would make the army doctor suffer until he could absolutely take no more. This would be absolutely perfect, in every sense of the word.

"Now you just need to take the bait, Johnny Boy." he murmured, grinning jubilantly. He knew John would call; he always was curious and thrived on adventure. It was only a matter of time before he began to wonder just how Ian knew Sherlock could possibly be alive.

Hours passed with Ian staring intently at his computer screen, watching the two men. Nothing was happening! Sherlock was sleeping and John was just...sitting. Sitting in his chair and staring at the man sprawled across the couch. An exasperated sigh escaped Ian's lips. All this waiting was infuriating! A plan this perfect, this magnificent, should not be delayed in such a way! John was curious, he _had _to be. Ian sat back in his chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling above. He had to be patient. His plan relied fully on his patience in order to work properly. He had waited this long for it all to fall into place, he could wait a bit longer. A movement caught his attention, and he instantly gave the computer screen his undivided attention. _Yes! _John was fishing something out of his pocket! Ian's heart lept as a small piece of paper appeared in the doctor's hand. The same paper with his number written clearly in beautiful black ink. This was it, the plan was beginning in full!

Almost as soon as his hopes soared, they were dashed as John shook his head and put it back in his pocket. Ian flopped back into his chair, unsure when he had jumped out of it. Well, this was proving to be more difficult to begin than originally anticipated...

"I knew you were a stubborn one, John Watson, but I underestimated you in that ability. It appears you might need some...motivation after all." he murmured with a chuckle. This waiting was becoming quite dull. It was time for him to make it interesting, and he knew just what string to pull. He quickly swiped his mobile from the counter and dialed.

"It appears our good friend Doctor Watson needs a bit of motivation. You know what to do." he stated cooly as the other end picked up, and a wicked smile spread across his face. This was going to be precious. This was going to be bloody and cruel and wicked. And Ian Hatfield couldn't wait for it to begin.

John stared at the figure sprawled across the couch, unable to tear his eyes away. If he did, it would certainly dissapear. He didn't have time to think much about it before, since he had been so preoccupied with making sure the detective didn't pass out on him. They had only gotten half way to the flat before Sherlock had abruptly stopped and leaned against the wall, white as a sheet. John had to help him the rest of the way, despite the protests. He then forced the detective to eat a slice of toast before banishing him to the couch to rest, where he begrudgingly quickly fell asleep. Now that he had a moment to think, John's brain couldn't wrap itself around the idea that Sherlock Holmes, the man who was supposed to be dead, was actually alive and sleeping on the couch in front of him. Granted he was weak, malnourished, overworked, and lacking proper sleep, but he was _alive. _He was breathing, his heart was beating, and he was not smashed against the pavement like the last time he saw the detective. Unable to stop them, silent tears flowed down his face as he tried to rid himself of those unwanted thoughts and memories. It was ridiculous to think about them now. After all, he wasn't dead now. Somehow, Sherlock Holmes managed to find a way to survive falling at least a few stories onto the pavement. Somehow.

"Leave it to _you_, Sherlock Holmes, to be able to pull something like that off." he muttered, a bitter smile spreading across his lips. "But how the hell did you do it?"

The question kept pounding in his head, pulling at his heart, just begging to be answered. He silently wished for Sherlock to get well soon. He would go mad if he didn't get answers soon. Nothing made any sense anymore. He had _watched_ Sherlock fall, he had seen him hit the ground, he had felt for his pulse and found nothing. He had been so sure the detective had died right before his eyes!

_"Ah, are you so sure about that?" _

The words instantly brought a chill to his bones. How could Ian Hatfield even guess that Sherlock might be alive? How could he have the slightest inkling? He had never met the detective! John had known Sherlock for a while, had even been told that he was his only friend, and he still could never have even tried to guess that he was alive! Something was definitely wrong with the picture he was seeing. Before he could realize what he was doing, the paper with Ian's number was in John's hand, glaring back at him. How the hell did Ian know Sherlock was alive? He had to find out. There was something not right about the situation.

Just as he was about to whip out his cell and call, Sherlock stirred in his sleep. He couldn't call now. Perhaps when he was alone he would, although the idea did not appeal in the slightest. Sherlock stirred again, and momentarily he was sitting up and staring at John with slight and barely surpressed surprise.

"You are still here." It wasn't a question, but a statement that sounded as if Sherlock was trying to wrap his mind around the fact that John was indeed still there.

"Well, of course I am. Where else would I be? I'm a doctor you know, and doctors don't leave their patients while they are still ill." John replied, voice surprisingly calm and even despite his own surprise at Sherlock's.

"Of course. I almost forgot how dedicated you were." came the reply, a small grin gracing the taller man's lips. Before John could come up with an acceptable reply, shouting came from downstairs followed by the thud of heavy footsteps running up them.

"Um, Sherlock? You didn't bring any company with you, by any chance?" he questioned, shooting his flatmate a nervous glance before their door was kicked in to reveal three muscular men armed quite heavily.

"So it's true, then. Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead." The man in the middle greeted, his bald head shining in the artificial light.

"It appears so, although this is certainly not the welcome I was expecting." Sherlock answered indifferently as he quickly and gracefully jumped to his feet.

"I suppose not, but this is the welcome you are going to get." the man, obviously the leader of the group, retorted with an evil grin as he took out a knife, long and slender. The two other burly men followed suit. Before John could react, the three thugs ran forward. The bald leader threw the doctor against the wall as the two henchmen went for Sherlock.

"I could kill you right here, right now. It would be so easy. But that is no fun, is it?" he whispered harshly in John's ear. "No, I would much rather enjoy this."

Suddenly a sharp pain heated across the doctor's face as the knife cut into his skin. A small cry of pain escaped him, and his soldier side then took over as he kneed his attacker in the gut. Surprised by the move, the bald thug cried out and let go, and John took the opportunity to punch him square in the jaw. He fell to the ground and John looked up to where Sherlock was located, having effectively knocked out one of his attackers. Distracting himself proved to be a huge mistake as the bald man quickly was on him again, pinning John once again against the wall, this time held so tightly moving was almost impossible. He tried to struggle, but this only brought an evil grin to his attacker.

"You're a fiesty one. Now I really will enjoy this." he growled as John distantly heard a noise followed by an intense searing pain up and down his arm. A loud cry flew from his lungs before he could even process what had happened. He barely had time to catch his breath before a fist connected to his face hard, sending him momentarily to a world of darkness. His legs gave out and he sank to the ground as he took punch after punch from the assailant.

_Please God, let me live..._

"Are you having fun yet? Because I'm having a blast!" he shouted maniacally above the blows. John couldn't fathom how long the blows lasted until finally a loud bang sounded out and the punching stopped. The now lifeless body hit the floor next to the doctor, and he stared, not quite comprehending what happened until Sherlock was hovering above him, calling him. He sounded at least a thousand miles away, and the edge of his vision began to blur.

"John! John! Stay with me!" Sherlock was calling, and John forced the blurryness to go away as he blinked rapidly. He slowly turned his head to face his flatmate's.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock was asking, quickly scanning over him, noting every injury the doctor had sustained.

"F-Fine." John stammered as he slowly made himself sit up. "I think my arm is probably sprained pretty good, and I have a lot of bruising from the punches, but that is the worst I think."

"Your face is bleeding badly." the detective informed, and John was surprised by the worry written on his friend's face.

"And so is your arm." he retaliated as he looked his flatmate up and down. Indeed his right arm had been cut deeply, and his face was bruised from being hit, but it seemed like the worst of it. The whole attack had been very quick, and John would have believed it had not happened at all if not for the dead body beside him. "What the hell was all that about?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. But I don't like it." Sherlock replied darkly, standing up as he supported John to do the same.

"Where did the other two go?" he asked, looking around the flat inwardly groaning to himself as he took in the state of it. Mrs. Hudson was going to love this.

"They ran off. They lost their leader, got scared, and ran away. At least Mrs. Hudson won't be home for the rest of the week. We should be able to clean this up before she comes back."

"Wait, she won't? How did you know that?" John couldn't help but gape at Sherlock. No matter how long he had known him, he would never get used to this.

"There was a note on the door adressed to you. Just in case you happened to come back."

"Of course there was." the doctor sighed with the smallest smile on his face. "Now go to the bathroom. With any luck, the first aid kit that was there should still be in the cabinet. I will be there in a minute."

"Ah, that's right. I'm living with a doctor again." Sherlock mumbled, but luckily complied with the order. John took a deep breath as he watched his friend dissapear. Nothing about the attack made much sense. Sherlock had just gotten back, how could anyone find out about it already? Perhaps word spread around more quickly than he originally thought.

_"There are bad people out there, Johnny Boy. Bad people that would do anything to get back at you and Sherlock Holmes for putting them in jail or whatever. The moment they hear anything about Sherlock, the tiniest little thing, you can be sure they will strike hard." _

That was too close. Those men were strong, especially the bald one who attacked him. They could have easily died.

_" I can protect you both. Keep you from getting hurt. It might just save his life..." _

John winced as the words flew in his mind. He didn't know what he would do if he lost Sherlock again. Granted, they were obviously not on the best of terms at the moment, there was too much that needed to be sorted out. But Sherlock was still John's best friend, and he had just gotten him back. Whatever Sherlock had been doing for these years obviously did not make him any friends, and John wasn't about to let him go now. There had to be something he could do to protect him...

_It might just save his life..._

John knew what he had to do. There was no going around it. Despite how he felt about Ian, he knew that if the man could protect Sherlock at least, he had to call. He wasn't about to sit by and wait for the detective's actions to catch up with him. He quickly walked away for a moment, whipping out his cell in the process, making sure Sherlock couldn't overhear him. Ian picked up on the second ring.

"Hello, John." his voice sounded even more snake-like on the phone, if even possible. It brought out the too smooth tones his voice carried, companied by a smugness that John couldn't fathom why it would even be present.

"How the hell did you know Sherlock was alive?" he hissed, skipping pleasantries.

"Ah, so he is after all. I had a feeling, that's all. From what I heard, he is far too clever to commit suicide. He wouldn't want to throw his life away, after all, he does love his work so doesn't he? And since you are calling, I suspect you need my help."

"We were attacked just a few moments ago. We are both relatively fine..."

"But you think you need protection. Well, it is a good thing you called. I told you you could be in grave danger with that man. But don't worry John, I will make sure this doesn't happen again. You two will be safe now. We must meet in person to discuss the specifics, however. Too dangerous on the phone."

"When and where?" he replied warily, looking behind to make sure a certain detective was not nearby.

"I will send someone to pick you up in a few day's time. In the meantime, try not to worry. I've got it all under control. I will keep in touch."

Before John could reply, he was greeted by the busy signal. He stared at his phone for a moment before disgustedly thrusting it back into his pocket. What had he just done? There wasn't anyway he could trust that man, but now he just went to him for protection? Sherlock's call suddenly snapped him out of his reverie, and he quickly walked to the bathroom shaking off all the uneasiness he felt for the time being.


	8. Questions And Answers

**Author's Note: So, since I don't have much of a life apparently, I decided to pump out another chapter! Here is some slight fluff, and a lot of feels for you! John's questions are finally answered! I know that the way I portrayed Sherlock surviving his fall might not be very accurate, or even feasable, but I tried! Sorry, I am really confused as to how he would survive, so I am so pumped for season three to answer the riddle! Anyway, thank you all for reading this far, you guys are the best! 3 **

Sherlock made his way towards the bathroom, unable to stop himself from looking back at John. The man looked bloody awful, and it didn't take a detective to figure out that he was in more pain then he was letting on. John was ignoring the pain for now, all just to make sure Sherlock was alright first. The detective shook his head slightly as he continued on his way. Why was the doctor so..._good? _He always looked after others before himself. He cared about what people did and how they felt, even complete strangers! Perhaps it was because of his profession, or his time in the military.

Sherlock glanced from room to room as he passed them, realizing that not too much had been changed since he had been here last. Normally he would have made the deduction quite a substantial amount of time sooner. It was a simple observation; a child could see it. However his body betrayed him half way up the bloody stairs, growing suddenly much too weak and his mind refused to form thoughts as quickly and clearly as he would have liked. He knew this would happen eventually, he felt his limbs becoming heavier and slower, his mind cloudier. But he had fought it as hard as he could, holding it back until he saw John again, until the point on the stairs where he couldn't fight it any longer. And still, despite the shock, and pain, and anger John felt at realizing the detective was alive, he hadn't acted on any of his emotions. He simply helped Sherlock up the stairs and forced him to eat and rest, making him well again.

The detective finally entered the bathroom, coming face to face with himself in the mirror. He was paler than normal, and a lot skinnier than normal as well. Blood seeped through his sleeve where it was cut open by the knife, showing a cut that was long, thin, and deep running down his arm. He had a huge bruise just under his right eye. He looked closely to examine just how deep the cut was on his arm, and he noticed something else entirely. Small puncture wounds glared back at him, blaringly obvious against his pale skin. He couldn't let John see, not yet. He couldn't know about the drugs. The detective imagined the look of dissapointment, pity, and guilt all wrapped in the doctor's face once finding out. No, he couldn't see. Sherlock refused to let him know now. The doctor was too injured, too shocked as it was.

He snapped open the cabnet to reveal the first aid kit and set to work. If he could get himself at least wrapped up before John came he wouldn't see, and Sherlock wouldn't have to explain.

"We were attacked just a few moments ago. We are both relatively fine..."

John's voice flowed into the room then, making the detective pause slightly. Who was John talking to?

_Voice slightly panicked. No second half of conversation-must be on phone._

_Sounds reluctant to speak. Doesn't want to be talking to person. _

_Discussing attack. Lestrade? _

"When and where?" John replied at length, and Sherlock noted the wariness of his voice.

_Definitely does not want to be talking to person. Or arranging a meeting. _

_Meeting with Lestrade to discuss attack? Set up safety measures? _

_No more talking. Very quiet. John gone? _

A sense of loss filled Sherlock before he could notice it was coming. Had John really left? Was he so angry at him that he would suffer through filing reports of the attack with Lestrade by himself? Without thinking better of his decision, he called out for the doctor. The flat remained quiet, and Sherlock was about to accept that John had left when he was suddenly standing in the doorway. His eyebrow raised as he took in the scene before him; Sherlock standing there with his arm partly wrapped up in gauze that was already becoming soaked with blood looking back at him with a slightly surprised expression.

"I think you had better let me help with that." John greeted, and Sherlock could hear the barely surpressed amusement in his tone. He quickly and stiffly moved his arm away as the doctor moved in closer to assist.

"You are worse off than me. You should check your own arm." he shifted the attention away from himself, and as he looked up to give John a pointed look he saw just how correct he was in is statement. His face was slightly swollen from being punched repeatedly, and from the way he was favoring his left side his ribs were hurt as well from the blows. Blood trickled down his cheek, and his arm hung stiffly and uncomfortably by his side. Anger flared through the detective, and it took all of his strength to push the emotion back down in his mind palace. The man who attacked John was lucky he died of only a gunshot. Sherlock wished he could have done much worse to the brute. He was met with a slight laugh from his flatmate, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"It's just a sprain, Sherlock. I think I'll live. And besides, I can't have you bleeding all over the place. Mrs. Hudson will have a fit, and blood stains are nearly impossible to get out." he replied, and before Sherlock could react, his arm was seized and began to become unwrapped. John winced as he used his bad arm to hold Sherlock's in place, and the detective sighed. He couldn't move without causing the doctor more pain. He was caught.

_Why? Why are you so good, John?_

He heard his flatmate take in a sharp breath when he saw them. The tiny scars running up and down his arm from the drugs seemed to be mocking the detective as John looked at him, eyes wide. After a beat of silence, the doctor let out a sigh and began to clean the wound, causing Sherlock to hiss.

"When?" he asked, his voice calm and quiet with the pity and guilt and dissapointment Sherlock knew would be there.

"When what?" the detective asked, buying time to come up with a decent answer.

"You know what, Sherlock. Don't play dumb. When did you start using again? And don't lie to me...please."

"When I was in Mexico." the taller man replied, voice void of any emotion. John had whispered please with so much pain and sympathy that Sherlock couldn't bear to speak the lie that had been resting on the tip of his tongue, ready to save his hide. If John was surprised or taken off guard or angry he didn't show it. He just continued to clean the wound, grabbing a new piece of gauze to wrap his arm in.

"What was it?" he asked as he worked, voice eerily calm.

"Cocaine."

"And how long has it been since you last used it?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away, causing John to look up at him. The detective silently cursed the pleading look in his flatmate's eyes. Since when did he allow anyone to have this kind of effect on him? No one ever had before.

"About a few weeks." he grudgingly answered, and John nodded tersely as he finished wrapping up Sherlock's arm. Now he faced the detective head on, concern written all over his features as he examined the emptyness of his flatmate's.

"You need to stop."

"I have stopped. I'm fine."

"If you feel any withdrawal, come to me. Don't go through it by yourself, you will be more lilkely to use again."

"But I'm fine, John."

"Just humor me!"

"Alright, fine."

"Oh, Sherlock. What has the world done to you?" John muttered after a moment, taking in his flatmate's expression. His blue-grey eyes were always sharp, calculating. They would light up like a candle when the detective got excited by a case. But now, they were empty, blank, cold.

"It was Moriarty." Sherlock replied tersely, catching the doctor off guard with his statement.

"What do you mean?" John asked weakly, and Sherlock sighed closing his eyes for a moment, quickly opening them again as he grabbed the peroxide and handed it to his flatmate to clean his own wound. He didn't want to discuss this; he knew it would be unpleasant for both of them. But John would find out sooner or later, he had to.

"The world did nothing to me. Moriarty did." He clarified blandly. John stared wide eyed, filled with horror.

"What happened, Sherlock?"

"Moriarty would have killed you if I hadn't jumped. He had snipers ready to shoot you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if they didn't see me fall. It was all to protect you. But I managed to fool them all."

"It's just a magic trick." John quipped, unable to look the detective in the face. He was profoundly interested in the bottle of peroxide in his hand, trying to get it open without hurting is bad arm too terribly. Despite everything, a small grin of pride formed on Sherlock's lips.

"So you did figure it out, then. Here, let me do it. You'll hurt your arm even more at this rate." he replied, taking the bottle from John and opening it. He then soaked a cotton ball in it and began to dab it on the wound on the doctor's face, making his eyes nearly bug out of his head. John's face felt warm and soft under Sherlock's cool fingers, depsite the blood and bruises. Something stirred in him suddenly at the touch, a feeling he had never felt in his life. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, and the detective found a part of him wanting to stand there for as long as he could, just touching John like that. Caught off guard, he quickly pushed the sudden emotion down, as far as he could, managing to keep the slight color that was threatening to spread on his face at bay.

"Um...y- yeah I did. Right before you came back, actually. It all sort of came together. What you said, your missing violin..." John was stuttering, clearly surprised at the contact as much as Sherlock was.

"The note I left on the bed, practically spelling it out for you..."

"S-Shut up!" John snapped, but Sherlock could tell he was only partly irritated. Despite trying to keep a straight face, he could see the glint of amusement in his eyes. However, it quickly shadowed as seriousness crept back, and Sherlock tensed, preparing himself for the inevitable.

"How did you do it?"

"Molly helped with that." Sherlock replied, putting the peroxide away once satisfied that John's wound was adequately clean.

"Wait-Molly knew you were alive? You _told_ her?" John interjected, barely contained fury making his voice sound harsh and raw.

"John..."

"You told Molly, let her know you were alright and let her help you. But you couldn't manage to tell me? _Me? _I thought I was supposed to be your friend!" John's voice cracked the tiniest bit, and guilt pulled at Sherlock, making him wince.

"John, I wanted to tell you. I tried to tell you, if you remember. But I couldn't outright say it to you. It would not have been as believable then. They would have known something was wrong and killed you immediately." the detective tried to explain, to push the emotions as far back in his mind palace as he could. John said nothing for a few moments, most likely trying to control the pain and anger ravaging him.

"Alright, fine. How did you do it?"

"I did jump, as you saw." Sherlock began, taking a deep breath. "But what you didn't see was the rope that slowed down the fall just enough not to cause any significant damage."

"Wait, you're saying that you had a _rope_ tied to the building to keep you from falling too fast?!" John cried incredulously.

"Yes, John. It was tied to my ankle, hidden by my pantleg. Once I fell, then the Homeless Network arrived and cut it off of my leg and and tried to keep you away." Sherlock replied, slight irritation in his voice from being repeated.

"The nurses and doctors." the doctor muttered weakly and his flatmate nodded somberly.

"And the man who hit you with the bike, to keep you away long enough for me to prepare."

"B-But I took your pulse, and I felt nothing!"

"That was Molly's doing. She was able to procure me a chemical that sends you into temporary paralysis, slowing your heart and pulse down so much it feels like there isn't any at all. She then wrote the post mortem, saying I was dead."

Sherlock watched John's face as he took in all the information. So many emotions washed over it; pain, anger, amazement. He had caused this. He had caused John to feel so terribly these past few years, and now a part of him only wanted to make him better, to fix everything.

"I am sorry, John." he replied, breaking the silence that was beginning to stretch too long.

"After that, once you got away, what did you do? Where did you go?" the doctor asked blandly, ignoring the apology.

"I went to take down the rest of Moriarty's network, starting with the snipers that threatened you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I went all over the world bringing them down; France, America, Mexico, South America, Germany, Russia. He really had a complicated web, after all."

"And did you get them all?" John asked quietly, feeling overwhelmed suddenly.

"All but one. We are trying to track him down, though. But he is here in London, hiding." Sherlock replied carefully. He was beginning to tread in dangerous territory. "Mycroft's people saw him near you once John. They said you two talked."

Instantly all John's color washed away from his body, and Sherlock could see his hands trembling. He cursed internally as the doctor leaned against the counter for support. He really needed to work on his people skills, apparently.

"John, do you know an Ian Hatfield?"


End file.
